Falling Stars
by Gimli's Pickaxe
Summary: They say love is forever. They are wrong. Warning : Very dark, AU.


_Disclaimer : I own neither Aragorn nor Arwen. :)_

* * *

**Falling Stars**

_They say love is forever. They are wrong._

* * *

I see you, husband.

I see the way you no longer look straight upon my face. Of course you do not, for you have never been much of a good liar – you had always been too honourable to lie right through your teeth. So now I ask you, husband. That sense of honour that forbids you lie to anyone – does it say it is good, what you are doing now, does it permit it?

I am Evenstar of my people. And I am distant, glimmering, something to be seen from afar and admired. I have never been much of a fighter, nor a ruler, and I never will. But I am not a fool, husband. I am not blind. I see.

Oh, I see indeed.

I see those fleeting looks you send when you think I am not looking. I see the way your eyes twinkle when you behold her, the way your hands curl in anticipation. I know you. I know how you are when you are in love. For once, you were in love with me, too.

And I know her, too. The youngest and freshest of my handmaidens, from this noble family or the other – her father practically sold her off. She is sprightly and pretty, in that mortal way – curly brown hair and liquid, warm eyes that look upon you with adoration. Now I say I know her again : she is not one to lose, to give up, to surrender. She will take all you have to give and then perhaps she will leave you weeping upon the steps.

But maybe that is what you want. Mayhap you have grown tired of being given things. For I have already given you every ounce of my being. I gave you my love, my beauty, the prestige of my bloodline. I gave up my eternal life for you, and now I am mortal, to grow old and wither and die. I gave you all, and you received, gladly. Or so I thought.

Is that so, husband? Were you really not so glad?

Was it fear for my lord father that herded you into my marriage-bed?

Oh, husband, you should have told me. For in choosing you I have sundered myself from my kin, my friends, my father, my brothers, the balm to my soul – Aman, the ancient home of the elves. I forsake all this for you, husband. You should have told me. But it is too late. For the Valar have heard my plea, and mortal I am : mortal I shall die.

I retire to my bedchambers. Our bedchambers. But, husband, it has been a long, long time since you have graced these rooms. Your side of the bed grows cold. But I do not call any other to warm it. For I am still not broken that badly. I will not match your action with another of my own.

So I lie in this bed, much too big for one, and I think.

I wonder what was wrong with me.

I have never much understood mortal love, all those pursuits and complications and games of love they played. Perhaps that has been my downfall. For mortal though I am now, I will always be half-elven at heart, and the only love I know is strong, and straight, and all-encompassing. I know not to taunt, to tease, to machinate so that all you see is me.

I ponder, again and yet again, and all I have left is a terrible bitterness in my mouth.

For true is my love indeed; and even now, husband, I cannot let you go.

* * *

I am getting quite good at this.

The art of seeing without acknowledging.

And the better I get, the bolder you grow, and now it is almost commonplace to see her upon the royal dining-table. She is the perfect picture of submission and sweetness; by the Valar – she does not even dare meet my eye. But nowadays I find that I am not that angelic after all. She looks up at me, from beneath those awfully long lashes of hers, looking as innocent as a young doe in the forest – and I my gaze that meets hers is ice.

Not many mortals dare meet an elf's gaze head-on, and she is no exception. She gasps, almost inaudibly, and turns away. You have ever been perceptive, husband. You notice, and send me a repproachful gaze.

I do not know what to say, so I just blink, once, and look down at my plate again.

For who is at fault now, husband? Is it me? Oh, but it cannot be so. It cannot be so.

Dear husband, I hurt, and I am growing more brittle by the day. Gone is the sweet young maiden who sang love is forever – and ever. My blood runs cold now, husband, and I do not recognize myself anymore.

You have torn me from everything I have ever loved. I handed myself to you on a silver platter – and you have thrown me to the dogs, to be torn apart, to rot, day by day, every day breaking just a little bit further.

I do not recognize myself. I do not know what I am capable of now.

* * *

Some years pass, and I age. Not a lot, mind, but I have some wrinkles now, some lines by the edge of my mouth, and when I look upon a mirror, I notice.

I have aged remarkably well, everyone says. They say I am still beautiful to look upon. But I am no longer Arwen Undomiel. I am Evenstar no more. I have fallen, ever so slightly, and I will never be as I was again.

Meanwhile, I watch as she blooms. She had always been youthful, a blossom just waiting to bloom – and now bloom she does. She is quite beautiful for a mortal, I admit. But, oh, sweet husband, I do not understand you. I never will.

She is my handmaiden no more. I notice. But I pretend not to know.

Scant few months later, she moves into the royal wing of the palace. I notice. But I do not ask why.

Some time later, I am handed a bundle. A bundle that cries. A bundle with your dark brown hair and – oh, so curious, husband. Where does he get these wide brown eyes from, this babe of yours? Your eyes are steely grey, mine the deep blue of my mother. But I know one girl with eyes just like this. My new neighbor, who is my handmaiden no more, this girl who you cannot take your eyes off of.

Am I truly a monster now, husband? For I hold this babe, this innocent being, and all I want to do is throw him right into the fireplace. And let you watch him burn.

Husband, but you must know : that is a small price. Oh, so small. For you have torn me from my family, my people, my kin.

Life holds nothing for me – but so is death. So is death.

Perhaps, now, my love falters at last. I want to hurt you. I want to hurt you, husband, but I will wait. I will wait. And I will see.

I am sure my face is less than savory. You shrug, apologetically.

He is a beautiful child, you say. You assure me that I will be able to love him as my own.

I almost laugh. I almost laugh because it is almost hilarious, this. Do I still seem so sweet, so innocent, so forgiving to you? Husband, there is one thing that you do not know. The innocent elf-maiden you wed is long gone. She died the day you stopped coming to her bed at night. She is dead.

And I do not know what I am, not anymore. Perhaps I really am a monster. But, sweet husband, I do not care anymore.

I smile. I am quite good at that : an elegant smile, benevolent, forgiving, sweet, soft, befitting a queen.

You smile back.

And I fall just a little bit further.

* * *

The royal prince is found dead a few years later. Oh, he was an adorable toddler, but perhaps he was just a little too energetic – an adventurer, just like his father. He is found on the ground right beneath his window. He must have leaned just a little to far out, people say. I shed a few tears and put a hand on your arm, husband, and advise you to put steel bars over all the windows of the castle. Apparently, open windows are dangerous for young ones. A tragic accident, I say. Perhaps I manage to seem sincere enough, for you do not question me.

Tragic indeed.

You never ask where I'd been the day he died. It has been a long time since you've asked for me. This I know. This I know, and I rejoice in it, for it makes things quite... easy.

Oh, husband, you will never imagine. The evenstar has fallen quite a long way now.

How much?

How much is the price of immortality betrayed?

You will never know. You will never know until you have payed.

You should have told me earlier, husband. But it is too late now.

* * *

I am recommended to move to another wing of the castle. Surely the queen must be grieving from the death of her firstborn, was what the messenger says. the fresher air will benefit her.

Will it really? Who are you to decide, husband? Or mayhap – mayhap, you are just getting a little bit smarter. Perhaps now you know me for who I am. Perhaps you know that that sweet girl is now gone.

Either way – I do not care.

Seasons pass, again, and I find the beginnings of grey hair upon my scalp. And suddenly, like a flash of lightning, I know.

My love is now broken. My heart now incapable of feeling any more. My kin sailed over the sea and torn from me, my family gone, unable to see their beloved Evenstar become a mere mortal, only to age and die. All I had had left was my beauty, and now, before the mirror, I realize : my beauty shall not be forever.

Another wrinkle. Another grey hair. My skin losing its luster, my nails growing brittle...

I would lose all. I will lose all.

So ironic, this. Beauty, which I had once thought the least of my assets – now the only thing I have left. I cling to it, with clawed, dirtied hands – and yet it slips away, as the years slip by, never to return. Such is the way of mortals.

This revelation hits me like a wave of cold water.

My beauty is not forever : so, I decide, I will make the most of it.

I am still beautiful enough that few men will refuse me. And so, this night – for the first time in a long, long while, my bed is not cold.

* * *

I had imagined getting pregnant. The look of incredulous disbelief on your face, then your grimace as you are forced to play along : for to admit my unfaithfulness is to admit your foolishness, and you, husband, you are proud.

Oh, yes, you are proud. Then I would have tasted the sweet nectar of revenge. I would not have been satisfied; I would never be satisfied. But it would have been something.

Day after day, different bodies fill my bed, but I never conceive. Perhaps this is the Valar's way of meting out punishment – their way of dealing out justice, for what I have become. If it is so, then I would say that they err – for it is not much punishment if I do not care, is it not? And I do not care much, either way. These days, I do not care for anything. I am like a fallen star. Brittle, hot, aching, sizzling, empty.

But I had never imagined this.

You, drunk, sword at your side, red-faced and furious. Standing, here, in my bedroom.

I laugh. Because I compare you to that proud young king so many years ago, and what you have become is – hilarious. Oh, husband, so now I know. Now I know that you have fallen, perhaps as much as I have, and that thought gives me laughter now, something that I had thought to have been lost to me forever.

I laugh.

I am the Queen, you cry, and I defile the royal name by my incessant scandals. You have come to put an end to it.

Perhaps I have. I have not cared much for others' eyes, these recent years. Now, seeing you like this, spluttering, drunk, and as undignified as a stable-hand mucking out the stalls – I think, oh, husband, maybe it has been worth it.

Where is your girl? I taunt. Where is your mortal girl, that girl who'd once given you a son? That sweet girl with brown eyes like a doe's?

Well, I know where she is. Palace gossip is fast. I heard of how that girl had secured herself a mansion and her father a lordship, then left the palace, rejecting all offers the King threw at her, never once turning back. Oh, smart, that one is. I was once foolish enough to risk all for love – and see where I am now. She was smart. She was what I'd never been, what I could never hope to be now, so – I let her go. I aided her escape, as the King's men pursued her cart under the cover of the dark. I let her go.

Sometimes I do not quite understand myself.

Where is your girl? I taunt, again, and I think I am laughing like a madwoman. Maybe that is what I am. Mad. Raving. I am empty inside, with just this strange, terrible flame burning me from the inside-out – I want it all to end. I am tired. Oh, husband, I am so, so tired. See how far your darling star has fallen.

Once, I was falling.

Now I am fallen. And you shall fall with me.

I see you draw your sword, in a drunken rage, and cut down the man who had been lying with me. Some son of this nobleman or the other – I care not. Even in your hapless state, he is no match for you, and the thick tang of blood fills the air. And it makes me so happy. So hungry for more of it.

Do you see that girl? I taunt. Do you see her face, so cold, as she rejected you, your love? All she wanted was your power and your gold, dear husband. She never saw you.

But I loved her, you cry, almost a pained scream. I loved her with all my heart.

Then something breaks inside me, yet again.

Because once, I loved you, loved you with all my heart. And I gave up everything I had – just for you. Just for you, my husband, my King. And then – and then you turn away, and you leave me, bitter, cut off from my own kin, lonely, burning, falling, brittle, poison running ever-so-slowly through my veins.

Your face is a mask of pure agony, and my mouth twists into a bitter smile.

For, oh husband, how strange and twisted is this world? For I understand you. Truly, utterly, I understand. I am more alike you than you might imagine. And just look where this has brought me.

So now let us go. Let us end this absurd dance.

So now let us go.

I taunt you, once more, knowing it will push you over the edge in this drunken state of yours. Well, she never loved you, I taunt, sweetening my voice to sheer sugar.

And then your sword is upon me, entering my guts, and all I know is pain, excruciating pain, as blood escapes me in great gulps.

Perhaps the sight is enough to snap you out of your drunken haze, because your eyes widen in recognition, and I see you. I see the real you, that brave young boy I had fallen in love with so many years ago, that boy that had cried in my arms for all the innocent lives being lost. I see you, and maybe you see me, because your face twists in anguish, and you cry out.

Arwen! Arwen! Oh, I was a fool. Do not leave me. Do not leave me. Oh, dearest Arwen. I love you.

Words escape you in a babble, and I know that it is you. It is you, my sweet Estel, my love.

But see how far I have fallen.

For whatever you say, I feel nothing. Nothing, but this burning in my heart, this terrible, terrible bitterness. And then I know – now is the time. I shall have my revenge, and my heart shall know peace.

Do you love me? I whisper, my voice little more than incomprehensible whistling. Oh, I do, you cry, your noble face twisted in pain and remorse, tears flowing freely down those sculpted cheeks of yours.

But I do not.

Those are my last words before I close my eyes, and I collapse to the floor in a messy, bloody heap. They are clear, and they ring true. Perhaps the Valar are not so cruel after all. For they have lent me strength for this last deed, for this one, last, dying wish of a tortured soul.

So have I done it, husband? Have I broken you at long last?

I know not. I care not. For I am still brittle, and broken, and burning, oh, Valar, this terrible burning, and I am so bitter. I am so bitter. And I am so empty, and it hurts, and my blood is liquid poison, and I care not.

I care not.


End file.
